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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216859">Messing About</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dippingmytoesindreams/pseuds/Dippingmytoesindreams'>Dippingmytoesindreams</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Omens/my newest hyperfixation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Author is not Christian, Eldritch, Implied Loki, M/M, Other, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Crowley, Soho's Guardian Angel, Steve is a good Christian, Stucky if you squint?, Tony refuses to deal with this bullshit, bastard aziraphale, i dunno, implied Thor - Freeform, mischievous crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:01:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,248</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dippingmytoesindreams/pseuds/Dippingmytoesindreams</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post Winter Soldier mainly because I want Bucky to be here for this.)</p><p>"Sounds simple enough," Tony drawls, arching a sceptical eyebrow. "A week-long mission just for a little book from a 50-year old man? You're losing your touch, eyepatch."</p><p>Fury ignores the obvious jab, but he does answer the man's smirk with a little one of his own. Something squirms in Steve's gut, like undigested worms. "A.Z. Fell's have a bit of a...reputation."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Omens/my newest hyperfixation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>938</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Love Me Some Crossovers</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I refuse to explain myself.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tony, Steve thought, was blowing a little thing all out of proportion. </p>
<p>"Prophecy books?" He is saying, looking between every face in the room with that <em>Look</em>, eyebrows arched way into his hairline, as if he is just waiting for the punchline to drop any second. "You're going to stand there, look at me with a straight <em>face</em>, and <em>tell me</em>, you're sending us in to stop Nazi's from getting their hands on a bunch of-bunch of voodoo written dead Satanists from over a hundred years ago?"</p>
<p>"Pretty much." Fury replies simply, meeting his eye without much trouble. </p>
<p>"<em>un</em>believable." Tony sputters.</p>
<p>"Tony's right, Fury." Sam agrees after a beat, albeit reluctantly. "It <em>does</em> sound a bit-uh-far-fetched."</p>
<p>"Not <em>that</em> far-fetched," Steve finally speaks up, feeling as if he finally has something to contribute to the whole debacle. "I mean, Hitler was known to go about collecting both Prophecy books and Occult artefacts during the tail end of the war. It was a whole, I mean, it was a whole thing."</p>
<p>"Desperate Measures." Tony dismisses, quickly. Natasha scowls at him, and he just raises his hand defensively. "What? You know I'm right! He knew that he was losing, starts pulling for straws-,"</p>
<p>"It's more than that." Bucky shakes his head. "They've sent <em>me</em> looking for them, and I can tell you now that they don't use them like bibles."</p>
<p>Steve can tell, not for the first time, his statement has prompted many a question, but Steve knows him well enough by now when to tell Bucky has clammed up. He was surprised Bucky had said anything at all.<br/>From underneath the table, Steve squeezes his hand reassuringly. For a split second, Bucky squeezes back.</p>
<p>"This is fucking-I can't believe we're talking about this. Why set a week to hunt down a couple of Godforsaken voodoo books when we already know where they've settled down, we can take them-,"</p>
<p>"But we <em>can't</em>." Bruce snaps. "Look, Tony, I don't like this any more than you do, but I don't like this. By all accounts, Hydra already has everything they need for a full-scale invasion-Thor is <em>gone</em> to look for Loki somewhere out in Nine Realms and they've got Clint, alright? We're no closer confirming where the hell all of them are- if they ever want to congregate in the same space-if they do it at all. I know you don't trust it and I don't trust it, but for some reason, they're waiting to get their hands on these fucking books!"</p>
<p>"Banner's right," Steve says because he feels someone ought to do it. The whole team has been high-strung for weeks in the follow up after the bombing in Fashion Week in Hong Kong, and Clint going MIA on the mission infiltrating one of Hydra's hot spots earlier that day has not helped matters along. Natasha is stabby, Tony is paranoid and Bruce has been overwhelmed. They need to do something, he knows, and they need to do it fast.</p>
<p>"Fucking Jesus on a pogo stick," Tony cusses, and Steve rolls his eyes. "Fucking Fine. What've we got?"</p>
<p>"A bookshop." Fury answers as if he had just waiting for his cue-as if the argument had not happened at all. Maria Hill, from one corner of the room, flicks her fingers from her tablet, and a snapshot of an old shop in-Steve squints at the holographic words imprinted beside the image-SoHo, London, UK appears on the screen. It looks historic, as most English storefronts and buildings do, and the words A.Z.Fell and Co. adorn the sign on the top of the modest storefront in dulled-but, not flaking-paint. It is obviously well-preserved. Maria taps a bit more and zooms in on a portly pastel dressed man in beige khakis, tan long coat and velvet waistcoat.</p>
<p>The man is frozen in an act of stepping out-out of a black antique car, beaming at whoever sat inside it.</p>
<p>"Avery Zira Fell is old, <em>old</em> money." Maria began. "From what we found of his official British documents, he'd inherited the Bookstore from his grandfather, who'd gotten it from <em>his</em> father before him, pushing back from at least at 200 years. No specifics, since some documents were purged through both World Wars. The property itself would have cost at least half a million. Sources also say he's pushing into his early 50's, and he regulates almost all local eating establishments in the city. He has the Ritz eating out of the palm of his hand."</p>
<p>"Sounds simple enough," Tony drawls, arching a sceptical eyebrow. "A week-long mission just for a little book from a 50-year old man with an unhealthy eating habit? You're losing your touch, eyepatch."</p>
<p>Fury ignores the obvious jab, but he does answer the man's smirk with a little one of his own. Something squirms in Steve's gut, like undigested worms. "A.Z. Fell's have a bit of a...reputation."  </p>
<p>Hill looks up to face them. "There are 0 criminal records. His taxes are flawless. There is literally no reports of dirt that can be used against him."</p>
<p>"Suspicious," Natasha mutters. "Mafia font?" </p>
<p>"That's the first thing we suspected," Hill replies, and she does the thing where she shares a <em>different</em> kind of look with Fury. "We've been tailing him for weeks. It's where things start to get... weird."</p>
<p>"The SoHo criminal underground community goes back for generations." Fury snorts. "Generally harmless though, besides the usual dealings and bailouts. Black market, that sort of thing. From what we can tell, it's a community."</p>
<p>"One thing they all have in common, though." Maria continues. "Nobody touches Fell."</p>
<p>"What?" Tony sneered. "Old pastel turns out to be bigwig crimelord? Some sort of neutral ground?"</p>
<p>Maria hesitates. "Not...quite. The biggest crime lord they've got in the city is a group called the Sabbath. A few others...but from what we know, Fell hasn't got anything to do with any of them. Just...books."</p>
<p>"Books?" Steve echoed.</p>
<p>"Black market dealings." Said Fury. "Old occult books, from the look of things. Voodoo, like Tony says. Other than that, Sabbath won't touch Fell's within a hundred-foot pole. In fact, from what we can tell, they actively keep people <em>out</em> of Fell's hair."</p>
<p>"Fell one of them, then?" Tony asks. "Some sort of information outsource? A family member?" </p>
<p>"We would have found <em>something</em>, if he was," Hill says, beginning to sound frustrated. "All they are is <em>scared</em>."</p>
<p>She is greeted with silence. Natasha raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p>"The mafia seems to be under the impression that whatever the hell Fell is, he ain't human," Fury says, taking pity on his left hand. "People who come into the shop armed with threats to burn the place down return with either no recollection of the encounter, or traumatized by nightmares. Old neighbours, or at least those who have been in the city for generations, claim Fell looks a spitting image of his ancestors-dating back ever since the shop has been opened in 1800." </p>
<p>Maria opens a series of photos, brief snapshots featuring Fell dating even back to 213 years ago, during the bookshop first official opening. Sam curses out loud.</p>
<p>"His official document states that there are never any more than <em>one</em> other relative to inherit the shop." He continues. "And SoHo residents have no recollection of ever seeing him age. They call him SoHo's Guardian Angel."</p>
<p>"They don't think it weird at all?" Banner prods, incredulously. </p>
<p>"A large portion of them seem don't seem to care. They never question it. Or they don't get comfortable doing so. Others get really fucking protective, usually due to personal experience. Those who <em>do</em> question it only ever assume mafia involvement, like we did."</p>
<p>"Not creepy at all," Tony mutters looking through the pictures on his own time. Finally, he seems to find a pattern and flicks a zoom-in picture of Fell walking beside another man in a park. It is a redhead, looking a great deal younger, the yang to Fell's ying. Where Fell is all sunny smiles, white and beige like an old victorian gentleman, he is all black grouchy scowls and sharp angles, not unlike a retired rock star. </p>
<p>"Who," Tony asks. "Is the Freddie Mercury wannabe?"</p>
<p>"Sugar baby?" Sam asks, sounding hesitant. Natasha snorts. Steve has no idea what that means, and vows to look it up later.</p>
<p>"Wondered when you would notice him." Fury grumbles, then louder. "<em>That</em> is Anthony, or Antonia J. Crowley. He's older than he seems-about Fell's age, give or take-,"</p>
<p>"Wait," Steve interrupts, brows furrowed. "Is it Anthony or Antonia?"</p>
<p>"Either, according to the sources." Maria clarifies. "Crowley goes by Mx and identifies as genderfluid. From what we can tell though, he prefers he/him pronouns unless explicitly told, so we should be in the clear." </p>
<p>Both Steve and Bucky took a minute to process this information, where the rest of the team watches them intently. Eventually, though, Steve says "Okay," and Bucky goes back to cleaning his nails with a dagger. Tony blinks.</p>
<p>"That's it?"</p>
<p>Steve is irritated. "I've seen genderfluid people before, Tony." There wasn't an official <em>term</em> for it back in his days, of course, but that doesn't mean they hadn't existed. </p>
<p>(Steve is quite glad, actually, that the idea of changing one's gender so easily is not frowned upon as badly as it had been. A lot of his old comrades had been good people. Men or otherwise.)</p>
<p>"Just thought you'd freak out a bit more  is all." He mutters, and Steve takes offence to that, but Fury had continued speaking.</p>
<p>"You'd probably realised by now that he appears in almost every picture taken with Fell. Even took a few of it himself, on his various social media pages. And yes, even has an uncanny likeliness in the old photos. From what we've discerned, he is Fell's significant other." </p>
<p>"Cute," Sam says, and Steve has to agree.</p>
<p>Maria continues to flick over some more official-looking documents and photos. The front of a deleted website, claiming to be A.J. Crowley's official company site for freelance business consulting. PhD certificates in Astrology. A few social media accounts under various pseudonyms. A driving license.</p>
<p>"Seems normal enough, aside from the pictures," Natasha mutters, eyes darting between one image to the next. </p>
<p>"Other than the fact that we can't trace back any of <em>his</em> family backgrounds, and that he has invested millions of dollars on megalith corporations in England dating back decades before he should've been born?"</p>
<p>"His own bank accounts rival yours, Tony," Hill smirks. "You're looking at a fellow billionaire."</p>
<p>Tony scoffs, and continues to flick through the provided information, muttering to himself.</p>
<p>"Why them?" Steve finally asks, curious. "Besides the obvious, why go through this much analysis, when all we need to do is buy off prophecy books he might own? It's a shop, right? We can't just buy the books without digging this deep?"</p>
<p>"According to his Yelp page?" Tony suddenly answers, pulling up what looks to be a different website local shop comments and critiques. "Apparently not."</p>
<p>"The weirdest fucking hours," Sam began to read. "Unwelcome host. Confusing organization. Mildew smell-huge ass venomous snake? You'd think the dude doesn't want to sell any of his books at all."</p>
<p>"From what we can tell?" Hill says drily. "He doesn't."</p>
<p>"Fell does no advertising, has no websites, and from what we can tell, gets a total of 20 customers a year-max," Fury says. "There isn't a logical way the shop could have gotten profit for anything at all. Really, Fell seems to be more of a collector than a business owner."</p>
<p>"And yet." Banner deadpans.</p>
<p>"And yet." Fury agrees. "Fell gets a consistent supply of books from all nearby local shops. He's renowned in the book auctioning and antiquarian market circles as the best potential bidder, not seller. Money doesn't seem to be much of a problem, for a man who inherited the bookshop managed by his family since before the World Wars. He monopolizes most of Europe's oldest and rarest book imprints and-unfortunately for us," Fury smacks his palm onto the table. "Owner of the only two copies alive of the exact book needed by both us, and Hydra."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tony gets impatient. Aziraphale's Bastard Energy is amped up to the MAX. The battle begins</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright fine. I've mentioned on my Tumblr dash how much of a hoot I find the GO fandom writing off the Ineffable Husbands as mostly passive, and occasionally incompetent (socially and romantically inept too, of course, that's a given) and I wanted a perspective of them from people who regularly DO deal with supernaturally, magically inclined and referred to as mutated and superpowered more often than not. Thus,*jazz hands at product*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Stop throwing money at your problems, Tony." </p><p>"Can someone please shut the Capsicle up, please," Tony mutters into his mic, eye-ing up his plate of chips and glancing surreptitiously at the (open, Tony had checked) bookshop across the street. The waitress spares him a glance with tired eyes, looks back to her notebook, then does a double-take.</p><p>Tony blinks at her, half-expecting that familiar burst of recognition so commonplace in New Yorkers who stumble into him on the street.</p><p>But all she does is squint, mutter a half-conscious "Enjoy your meal," before waltzing off to serve the next customer. Tony spares a small smile to himself and takes a bite of the cooling plate of potato crisps. He forgets to miss this, sometimes, when he could go out and enjoy himself without someone making a huge deal out of him eating greasy local food. It helps, he thinks, that the English tend to be a little more courteous than your average American.</p><p>"It's not going to work," Natasha warns him, over the intercom. "Tony, you're going to blow our cover. Pull out, now."</p><p>"Ye of little faith," Tony smirks at the unintentional innuendo. "And mama didn't raise no quitter. Listen, I know how it sounds-,"</p><p>"<em>Tony</em>." </p><p>"-look, I'm just saying; it's a business, everybody has a price!"</p><p>There is a collection of groans. Sam cusses up a snowstorm.</p><p>"Besides," Tony finishes the last of his chips. From across the road, a man stumbles out of the store empty-handed in what seems to be a drunken haze, looking bewildered and confused. "It's our best bet to scope around the place, figure out if Hydra's already been."</p><p>"I don't like this, Tony." Bruce frets.</p><p>"Trust me." Tony steps up to the counter to pay. The receptionist looks at him weirdly-since by all accounts he looks like a half-deranged American tourist talking to himself but takes his money without much trouble. Tony beams at him his signature paparazzi smile. "It'll be like stealing candy from a baby."</p><p>--------------</p><p>There had been only one photo depicting the inside of the bookshop circulated throughout the entirety of the internet, posted on Facebook of all wretched things, by Fell's partner. Considering the artistically dim lighting of the photo, Tony had only managed to make out well-kept antiquarian furniture, fine china as sushi plates and the vague blurry outlines of an overburdened writing desk.  There had been many an attempt of describing it, though, in both positive and negative light. Upon entering the building, however, Tony finds that they barely do the real deal justice.  A.Z.Fell's is the brainchild a true bibliophile's heaven on earth. </p><p>There was the unlit fireplace, smothered between overflowing bookshelves in the back of the shop. An empty snake vivarium sits well lit and warm in a place of honour beside the unattended register. The air smells faintly of dust and mildew, but Tony assumes the smell comes naturally by keeping the sheer amount of books in an enclosed space. The temperature is the perfect, pleasant combination of cool and dry, but Tony is unable to find any humidifiers nor air conditioning equipment. </p><p>And, of course, towering stacks upon stacks of <em>books</em></p><p>"Motherfucker." Someone mutters.</p><p>"You gotta admit the man commits to aesthetic." That was Sam, in a vaguely impressed tone.</p><p>"Bruce, you seein' this?" Tony murmurs into the receiver as he approaches one such stack, taller than even himself. It wobbles threateningly if he comes too close, so he contents himself with peering at it within a generous arm's length.</p><p>On the other end of the line, the Doctor garbles something unintelligible. Rogers smothers a laugh.</p><p>Tony is not exactly alone, but there are only three other people within eyesight, two of which are local college students; whispering and pouring over some archaic texts over by the stuffy armchairs in the distant corner, under a dusty window. The other is a young blonde woman, hardly bothering to look up from her dusty tome about-Tony peers over her shoulder-the documented uses of lace between the 17th and 20th century.</p><p>Tony feels as if he had just stepped into a quietly magical, otherwordly realm-no Hydra, no Stark Industries, not even the Avengers Initiative. The passage of time is insubstantial, and Tony is just another nameless, faceless stranger, passing through.</p><p>He doesn't want to spend another moment in here more than he absolutely has to. </p><p>"Can you see the target?" Bucky's voice filters through the intercom, as sharp an emotionless as always. It sets his teeth on edge, strangely grounding.</p><p>"Excuse me?" Tony says, tapping the blonde woman on her shoulder. He finds himself whispering, despite making no conscious decision to do so. The woman looks up politely, brow scrunched in annoyance-at least until she realizes who she is looking at. She gasps, nearly dropping her book. Her eyes are as big as saucers.</p><p>"Yeah, hi," Tony says quickly, before she can begin freaking out. "Sorry, do you know where I can find the um, the owner of this establishment? I need to speak with him about the purchase of a book I need." </p><p>The reaction is instantaneous. The college students snap their gazes up, staring at him in surprise. Tony is used to that-he is not used to the look of irritation and fear in their eyes. The blonde woman he is speaking to begins to fidget in place, eyes darting to and fro.  </p><p>"Don't let him hear you say that." She warns him, snapping her book shut. </p><p>"Oh, I don't like that," Sam mutters, and Natasha once again demands he exits the shop <em>right this moment</em></p><p>Tony raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms across his chest. "That so?" </p><p>"He's not going to let us borrow any of this." One of the college students confides reluctantly. "We should have at least another 30 minutes with what we need. He doesn't like anybody leaving with them." </p><p>"I thought this was a book<em>shop</em>?" </p><p>"You guessed correctly, my good sir." A new voice chimes in from behind him, fussy and old fashioned. </p><p>Tony nearly jumps out of his skin. He hadn't detected anyone behind him nearly a second ago. FRIDAY beeps nervously.</p><p>The blonde woman is staring nervously beyond his shoulder, where-once Tony turns-the target stands, as chipper and stuffy as his photos depict him to be. </p><p>Fell is dressed in his signature white and beige-sans the coat, and his head of bleach blonde hair sits on his head with Einsteinian level of predictability, glowing in the sparse sunlight streaming through the windowpanes like a halo. His face is scrunched around a beaming smile, and hands clasped delicately behind him.</p><p>His eyes, however, are dark and sharp and unwelcome. Neither Tony nor FRIDAY can accurately decipher their colour. Tony, feels, inexplicably, as if he is being glared at by a thousand judgemental eyes. For a single moment, nothing would feel more devastating than disappointing this kind, gentle old man standing in front of him.</p><p>Tony had been caught unawares, unarmed, insecure as a champion gladiator who had waltzed into an arena assuming he would come out on top against lowly colleagues, only to realize that he had been trapped inside a lion's den, challenged against an opponent that is more than what he had bargained for. </p><p>Fortunately, it is not the first time he had found himself in this situation.</p><p>Naturally, Tony Stark does what Tony Stark does best. </p><p>"Nice business you've got here." He drawls, his face settling into that oh so familiar mask of arrogant, condescending nonchalance. "The mould and giant snake really ties the whole place together." </p><p>Fell frowns. </p><p>Tony almost gave in to his urge to flinch.</p><p>Instead, he holds out his card-as stiffly and professionally as possible. "Tony Stark, founder of Stark Industries," he adds, just in case the name would spark even a little spark of recognition in the man's depthless, dark eyes. All it does is make him raise an unimpressed eyebrow, even as he reluctantly took the sleek black and blue holographic card in his own soft, warm and perfectly manicured hands that looked like he had never known a hard day's work his entire life. "I assume <em>you</em> are Co?" He asks redundantly, giving the other man a baleful once-over, referring to the shop name.</p><p>"And I assume <em>you</em> are American." Fell shoots right back, not even attempting to make it sound like a question.</p><p>One of the college students snorted, before quickly attempting to make it look like he didn't.</p><p>"I'm looking to buy a book." Tony states.</p><p>"Do you," Fell says, amused. Tony suddenly feels ridiculously stupid.</p><p>"It's a rare piece, a 16th-century misprint of Agatha Christie's 5th Collection of Daily Premonition's, and my sources have told me you are the absolute best to find in the business." </p><p>"Did they." Fell echoes his own earlier sentiment, giving Tony a vaguely amused once-over in return. "Well, I assume your <em>sources</em> have also informed you to call in an appointment before making such a request?" </p><p>"I'm sorry," Tony starts. "A <em>what</em>?"</p><p>"An appointment, good sir." Fell repeats himself, so innocuously it one could hardly call it what it was-throwing Tony's jibes right back at his face. Tony is almost impressed. "Why, I could hardly upend my entire schedule to simply accommodate your demands.  There are certain procedures and an entire system to sort through-and if the book is not already in my inventory, <em>days</em> to scour between my <em>multiple</em> connections to hunt it down. I'm only human," Fell smiles, hitting straight home. "After all."</p><p>Tony stares at him.</p><p>The intercom is practically <em>buzzing</em> in silence, though Tony could swear Bruce is muffling his chuckles through his hand.</p><p>He can already feel his jaw and knuckles clenching, his mile-wide competitive streak searing down the line of his spine like one of Thor's own conspicuous lightning bolts. "Oh, that sounds practical. Yeah, sorry, that's logical. My bad." </p><p>"I'm glad I could bring you to see-," </p><p>"Only, sorry, my company is the largest known IT company worldwide, and if you don't mind me mentioning, Mr Avery Zira Fell-Avery, really?-there are no known official or casual websites tied to your name, <em>or</em> your business throughout the entire Internet-terrible marketing and management, really, easy to overlook-besides an uncomplimentary Yelp page, so really," Tony sucks in his lower lip, mockingly, and sends him an intentionally insincere look of pity. "It really wouldn't take much for me to bring this entire establishment down our very heads, so." He shrugs. </p><p>
  <em>Your move.</em>
</p><p>Even their silent, unwilling audience seem to be holding their breaths, eyes looking between the two men locked in a verbal battle, not unlike witnesses to a particularly intense ping-pong match. By some miracle, none of them is recording either, though Tony is not one to go around looking at horses straight in their mouths.</p><p>Fell pulls the rug from right under him. He <em>laughs</em>. </p><p>"Oh, I assure you, sir, you don't need to worry about that at all," Fell says, still chuckling. His eyes twinkle merrily in challenge. "The possession of antiques and books defy the progression of time; my very shop is 200 years of age and still has the capability of attracting a bountiful of influential customers such as yourself without much problem." Fell shrugs. "I find no use changing something that already works. And I'm afraid you've misunderstood-I was, in fact, referring to the telephone number plastered on the sign outside the shop." </p><p>Tony scowls. </p><p>"You don't <em>have</em> a phone number listed outside." </p><p>"Of course I do!" Said Fell, and without waiting for an answer, turns around and heads for the exit. Caught off guard, Toby scrambles to keep up. </p><p>"-really, I get it, this thing slips by your memory sometimes-you're not as young as you used to be. I've searched through your entire perimeter and I promise you, you do <em>not</em> have a phone number listed on-," </p><p>Fell stops at the small windowpane on the left of the shop, where there is a laminated piece of paper describing shop hours in long, winding sentences.</p><p>And there, in smaller unmistakeable type 14 Arial Font, where the words;</p><p>        <strong>For specific requests, please reserve an appointment at the number below for convenience and your satisfaction. (Prices open to bargain). For office hours, confer OPENING HOURS stated above.</strong></p><p>Caption a 10-digit number at the very bottom of the page, in old smudged ink.</p><p>Tony stares at the number.</p><p>The number stares back.</p><p> "What," Tony mutters, eloquently. "The absolute fuck?"</p><p>"That wasn't there before." Natasha is Definitely Not Laughing anymore. </p><p>"Well," Fell intones gently. "It seems that we might be done here. Don't hesitate to call at your earliest convenience, Mr Stark, and I am sure we will reach the best possible business proposition for both of us. Pleasure doing business with you!"</p><p>By the time Tony deigns to look up from the number, he is alone in the street, and several people are already milling around with their phones out-excited at the chance of filming a real live confrontation with Tony Stark, aka Iron Man-genius, playboy, billionaire philanthropist on the streets of SoHo, London. </p><p>Reserving his signature smile at the amateur entourage of paparazzi, Tony simmers with quiet rage.</p><p>Oh, it is <em>on</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam plants a buggy. Crowley plays a prank. Steve gets a hint.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have made peace with the fact that I'm probably not going to make any relevant progress with my Crowley ficlet series until this is over and done with. Not happy with the ending, but it's the best I could think of, so. *shrugs*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"-don't understand why we can't just <em>sue him</em>-,"</p><p>"Tony, I swear to God if you don't stop talking we <em>will</em> take you off the line-,"</p><p>Sam holds a hand out against oncoming traffic, letting Nat's and Tony's bickering fade into the white noise of SoHo's early morning crowd. It was cleaner than what he was used of New York, he mused, by a margin. Barely noticeable, really, but he's gotten a whole lot more attuned to those kinds of things after the Army, and again once he had been absorbed by the Initiative. A car honks at him in frustration, and he barely avoids a woman barrelling headfirst into his chest, saving her coffee and her phonecall by a hair's breadth. She spares a moment to shoot him a look of eternal gratification before the both of them are swept away by the crowd. </p><p>"Eyes on the Target, Falcon." Steve's voice filters through the incessant bickering. He ducks into an alleyway between a tailor and a wine shop. "You spot him? Fury wagers he should be open by now."</p><p>"He's not." Sam deadpans, leaning against bare brick and mortar. He sees the Bentley, instead, parked way too inconveniently on the front of the shop to have been done by accident. In-person, the 1993 antique masterpiece is a black behemoth of a thing, it's black exterior gleaming proudly in the early morning sun. "Looks like he had the boyfriend over. Who's to bet we try again tomorrow?"</p><p>"On a Saturday?" Steve snorts. "I'll pass." </p><p>"12 o'clock," Bucky says quietly, and Sam snaps his gaze back up. Fell had opened the shop blinds, and he sees his ginger significant other bursting out the door like a rushed man on a mission. His eyes follow the man as he opens the driver's side door (a quick mind re-set as to what qualifies as the driver's side of a car, outside America.), but just as he was to duck into his seat, his head snaps up, and Sam could swear he was looking straight at him.</p><p>"Uh-oh," Bruce mutters over the intercom.</p><p>Anthony J. Crowley pauses, and Sam suddenly finds himself unable to move, not even to turn his eyes away. The team is barking orders in increasingly panicked tones into his ear, and he is unable to parse even a single word of it. With the distance and custom made shades in place, Sam could barely decipher the accurate direction of his eyes, and yet he knows, without a doubt, <em>they are looking straight at him</em>.</p><p>The other man smiles, and it is a hideous thing, something wide and twisted with too many teeth, setting alarms into his ancient primal hindbrain to register a <em>PREDATOR, HIDE, RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY NOW</em> and-and-</p><p>And he ducks into the car, speeding away something illegal leaving chaos and destruction in its wake, and Sam Wilson is back in a dank alleyway in a random corner street of SoHo that smells faintly of cat piss and homeless people, and the Target is puttering about his Front Display, happy as a clam. </p><p>"I don't like this." Bruce is saying, and he is emphasizing it, so Sam doesn't think this is the first time he's said it. "He has to pull back, we'll have two of us down there, he's been spotted-," </p><p>"We don't have that kind of time," Natasha growls. "I say we proceed-," </p><p>"<em>We are not gonna wing it, Nat</em>." </p><p>"You okay there, bird-brain?" Tony asks him, and it sounds a bit strange, coming from him. "Seemed a little lost there for a moment. Your call." </p><p>Sam shakes his head, clearing the last of his uncertainty from the recesses of his mind. Aside from the trail of goosebumps down his shoulders and spine, a buzzing in his ear, he can barely remember what had him so frightened in the first place.</p><p>"I'll be fine." He assures them, and Bruce groans in distress. They are going to proceed with the plan, and he is prepared for all eventualities.</p><p>----------</p><p>"Can I help you, my dear?" Fell says, looking up from his ledgers from the register. He almost looks startled to see him. </p><p>"Oh, no, sorry," Sam says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denim jackets and adopting a shy, nervous fidget. "I was uh, my professor in college recommended this place to find some works on my thesis for Marlowe and how he impacts the English society before and after his career, but I can't really afford any books I was just sort of wondering-,"</p><p>"Why, of course, young man!" Fell intones brightly, more so once he'd determined Sam as no threat to his collection, just as they'd gauged. He had even gone so far as to walking around the counter with intent and leaving his ledger, appropriately polite as opposed to his demeanour from two days ago. "Why, I happen to have some of his original manuscripts in the back room, and I could help you analyze them better. Do I happen to be familiar with your professor at some point?"</p><p>" S just word of mouth, really." Sam murmurs, intentionally nervous, and proceeds to follow the man further into his collection of towering bookshelves.</p><p>--------</p><p>"And don't hesitate to swing by if you ever need another reference for your work, dear boy!"</p><p>"I will." Sam laughs, hugging him back without flinching, not even once. Fell is soft, his sky blue eyes bright and sincere and Sam feels as if his smile might just tear through his cheeks-he has never felt so wholly understood and appreciated in his entire life. He doesn't understand Tony or SHIELD's reservations on Mr Fell at all-the man was nothing but a harmless old queen well past his glory days, and listening to him ramble on about the old days living through the War (which he apparently saw through way more personally than Sam originally thought) in the dimly lit back room, draped under a worn heated blanket and cup of cocoa in hand brought him back to his younger days settled into his GrandDaddy's lap, reminiscing about the hard history and Good Old Days. </p><p>"Did you manage to plant to the bug?" Natasha's voice rings out into his ear, and he almost startles, ducking out of the way of a sluggish, oncoming car. The sky is that familiar dusky slate and bruise purple, and enough of city smoke has blown away to hint a generous smattering of stars for the night.</p><p>Funny how time passes like that. He could've sworn he had only entered Fell just minutes ago. </p><p>"Yeah," he tells her, somewhat guiltily. But barely at that, tucking the camera into some cookbooks in the back corner of the east end of the shop as Fell had moved to show off his Shakespeare collection. It had practically almost slipped his mind. And he almost feels bad about it, as if he had just betrayed the kind hospitality of a perfectly ordinary old man. He'd been so immersed in Fell's stories and antics he'd damn nearly forgotten about the mission-and having the intercom stay quiet throughout the entire day hardly helped matters along.</p><p>"You were awhile in there." </p><p>"Just lost track of time," Sam grumbles unhappily. "It's an in and out, yeah? Just for the book? We leave Fell alone, right?"</p><p>He hears uneasy shuffling on the other end of the line. Sam wonders, briefly, where the rest if he team had gotten off to. "Don't get attached, Wilson." She warns him.</p><p>"I'm not getting attached." He lied. </p><p>"Right," Natasha replies, unconvinced. "We'll have to see what Fury'll have to say.  We caught word about some underground auction down in Singapore-stake out for the books if Fell doesn't have it. Rogers, Stark and Barnes are on it. They'll pick you up where we dropped you off on the Hoverboard." </p><p>"Great." For some reason, Sam is not excited to witness just what they might catch on camera. He just wants the mission to be over. </p><p>-------------</p><p>"Anything good?" He greets Tony, first thing the next morning, fresh off his morning run. Besides the uncharacteristically dishevelled state of his hair and prominent undereye circles, you could hardly tell the other man has been up in his lab all night.</p><p>Without missing a beat, Tony catches the energy bar Sam throws his way, though he pauses before taking his usual mug of coffee, dragging his fingers down his face. </p><p>Sam frowns. "Something wrong?" </p><p>Tony turns to face him, and his expression is that of drowsy frustration. </p><p>"He's <em>messing</em> with us." He hisses. </p><p>"Who?" Sam asks, and his hackles are raised, Natasha's voice ringing over and over inside his head telling him against <em>getting attached, don't get attached, Wilson Don't do it-</em> "Fell? Something happened to him?"</p><p>"I wish." Is all Tony says, before turning on the audio of the bug for Sam to listen to it himself.</p><p>He listens.</p><p>He listens some more.</p><p>And when they finally reach the end of the 7-hour clip, finally understands the look of confused rage in Tony's sleep-deprived eyes.</p><p>"Fuck." He says in return, which sums the whole thing up perfectly.</p><p>-------- </p><p>The team is quiet for a record-breaking total of 4 and a half hours listening to the tape before Steve, of all people, snapped.</p><p>"Okay, I'll bite." He says angrily. "Why are we listening to 7 hours worth of the Best Of Queen?" </p><p>Bucky frowns at him. "Queen of what?" </p><p>"It's a band name." Banner answers, before also turning his attention to their resident techie. "This isn't funny, Tones. You said you'll be letting us hear the audio clip." </p><p>From over their shoulders, Tony's eye meets his, each one prompting the other to clarify the hard truth of the matter. From there, Natasha catches in quickly enough. </p><p>"Hold on." She says. "Are you saying that <em>this</em> is the bug audio tape? For an entire day and a half?" </p><p>"Just the cut after Wilson leaves the shop, actually," Tony explains, leaning against his empty chair of their designated meeting room. "The <em>first</em> five hours is just him and our resident bird of prey here geeking over modern-day Hamlet." </p><p>"I'm thinking of having the next veteran meeting stage a play for the local church kids next month," Sam admits.</p><p>Tony pulls up a static clip of the bookshop interior, unchanged throughout the entirety of the audio. "Fell puts his coat up, sets his mug down and turns on his godforsaken gramophone. Queen starts, things stay that way for just some 6 hours and change, then-," Tony fast forwards the clip. "This happens."</p><p>There is the rusty tinkling sound of the shop doorbell, and a new voice emerges-greasy and British and lower than Fell's own fussy posh inflexions. </p><p>"Angel! I've brought sushi!" </p><p>"Crowley?" Fell responds, from somewhere in the back of the shop. "Lock the door behind you, would you? Set the wine down, darling, I'm in the kitchen!" </p><p>There are thumping footsteps, followed by the sound of bolts and heavy wine bottles being set upon a sturdy wooden table. A few minutes later, they are treated to the sight of the newcomer.</p><p>Anthony J. Crowley <em>saunters</em> ( There was no other word for it. Nobody could possibly move their hips like that all day without dislodging something) between the stacks and heavily laden bookshelves. His shades, despite the dark reprieve of the shadows, are still set firmly in place. He seems to be looking for something between the disorganized chaos of the books, before settling his gaze upon the camera. </p><p>"Well, hello." He said, grinning, and it is once again a twisted, hideous monstrosity of a thing that Sam can't directly look at and yet is unable to look away from, something too white and too sharp and entirely inhuman. "Fancy seeing you here. My angel doesn't much like any other eyes in here, see. He's got enough of them on his own. You can try again next time, eh? Be sure to ask nicely." And he pulls the syllables of the end into hisses, fluid and serpentine.</p><p>Anthony J. Crowley reaches out, and it's funny, because what had previously seemed like nails painted in black lacquer suddenly seem like talons, dipped in tar, he could've sworn they are much <em>longer</em> than they had been a second ago-</p><p>And the video blacks out. Static.</p><p>Sam blinks.</p><p>"What the fuck?" Natasha hisses, perfectly echoing Sam's sentiment from this morning. </p><p>"At least now we know they <em>aren't</em> human." Banner quips, but the statement is posed in the form of a question. "Thoughts?"</p><p>"Mutants?" Steve suggests, and Tony shakes his head. </p><p>"Xavier isn't taking my calls right now." He says, scratching his week-old stubble. "But they rarely take in folks that look that old. No, we're talking about things that aren't familiar with the business at all." </p><p>"How do you know that?" Sam prods, frowning. "And how do we know it isn't just the ginger, either? Fell might have no clue about his partner at all."</p><p>"Doubtful." Natasha snorts, tapping on her StarkPad. </p><p>"How do you know they're unfamiliar with the business?" Bucky repeats Sam's earlier question. </p><p>"I've got a little bit of dirt on everyone, bucko." Tony snaps, and Steve glares right back. "And you know what, so does SHIELD, so does Xavier, nothing blows by me, so I don't know what the fuck <em>that</em> was-," Tony gestures madly towards the staticky screen, "-but I <em>do</em> know that whatever it is, it's nothing I've ever seen before. My tech doesn't even <em>get</em> static!" </p><p>"Yeah, that <em>was</em> weird." Banner admits thoughtfully. "You kept the camera rolling, right?" </p><p>"I'm not an <em>idiot</em>, Bruce." </p><p>The entire meeting passed by in somewhat of a haze; all Sam managed to determine was that at the end of the day, they've persuaded SHIELD to do a little more digging into the subject, and Natasha would spend the tomorrow on a stakeout to scrounge for anything useful. Tony and Steve managed to drag him for a Clint hunt down in Siberia though, and he gets the dreaded feeling it would drag by longer than he would want it to be. </p><p>He chugs down the rest of his mineral water and desperately wishes for alcohol instead.</p><p>SHIELD doesn't pay him enough to deal with this shit.</p><p>------------</p><p>"You still up?" </p><p>Steve looks up from his spot on the minibar in the community lounge, and Sam gets a good look at the pocket-sized leather-bound book he holds in his hands. He snorts, amused.</p><p>"I mean, we've in a pretty pickle here," he chuckles. "But I don't think we should call in help from the Big Man just yet, Cap."</p><p>For a second, he worries the blonde might just take offence to it, but all Steve does is chuckle to echo his sentiment on the matter. </p><p>"It's stupid." He murmurs, as Sam lets himself into the seat right next to him. "It's something he said about Fell in the clip, it doesn't make any sense."</p><p>"What?" Asked Sam. "The eyes thing? Yeah, guess that was pretty creepy. Don't wanna think about that too much myself, though."</p><p>"That's just it, though, isn't it?" Steve emphasizes, and he sounds strangely insistent about it. "Feels like they're screaming the answers straight into our faces, and making us look away anyway. Like something's messin' with my head."</p><p>Sam frowns at him, thoughtfully. </p><p>(He gets a headache if he keeps on this track, and all he wants to do is go to sleep. It's just been a couple of long weeks, hasn't it?)</p><p>"I need to pack up for my trip tomorrow morning." Is all he says instead, zipping his leather jacket all the way up to his chin. "You know how bitchy Coulson gets about schedules. We need your head in the game, Cap."</p><p>Steve is frowning at him, and there's a look in his eyes Sam doesn't like too much.</p><p>Whatever. They're all tired, and Rogers needs to head to bed as much as he does. </p><p>"Get some sleep, Captain," Sam advises him. "Big day tomorrow."</p><p>Steve looks away, smoothing the pages between his fingers like a stress ball, letters faded over time. </p><p>"Yeah," he finally says, "Big day."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next episode: Natasha strikes a deal with the devil himself.<br/>(hint; the devil's Crowley.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Natasha and Crowley strike a bargain.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I feel like this is shorter than the others, but it's the pretty substandard 2k. I'm also really proud of how this turned out, for some reason. Have at it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day was already going with far more excitement than Natasha originally anticipated.</p>
<p>"Let's go for a walk." Anthony J. Crowley tells her, hailing for the waitress. It was not a request. "I have a feeling the both of us are in for a bit of a talk." </p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>She had settled in for the long haul when she had arrived in the cafe that morning-the one with tragically sparse modern interior, a few shops down the street opposite of Fell's. She had scoped it out as the most advantageous vantage point in her favour-where she can view the comings and goings of the bookshop without much hassle, and along with it, observe every vehicle and pedestrian coming through the one-way street and narrow pavements. Armed with a gun holstered under her armpit (hidden by a deep brown thigh-length coat), a knife sheathed into her boot, a battered copy of Emma she was going about reading anyway and a  triple shot macchiato, Natasha had resolved not to move from her table (close to the shop entrance, sequestered in the corner next to a wilting pot of fern) until the day is done with, the Target is apprehended or at least, something interesting would happen. </p>
<p>Knowing her luck, she really should have known better.</p>
<p>8 minutes and a paragraph in, the Target's significant other plops himself down on the chair on the other end of her table, making himself comfortable without much ceremony. There were the ever-present shades, of course, and his hair is much longer than it had been since she had last seen him-that is to say; the shop recording incident from two days ago-tied into an artfully tousled man bun at the top of his head.</p>
<p>Natasha had stared at him, and sipped her macchiato expectantly. </p>
<p>Anthony J. Crowley's thinly plucked eyebrows are raised in mild surprise. </p>
<p>"Well?" He asks. "Aren't you even going to <em>try</em> to pretend not to know me?" </p>
<p>"No." She says.</p>
<p>"Not a very good spy, then." </p>
<p>"On the contrary, Mr Crowley." Natasha smiles. "One of the best." </p>
<p>He chuckles, pleasantly surprised, and it is not the same twisted thing she had seen on the tape. Instead, it is a reluctantly genuine slip of a thing, gone as quickly as it had come. </p>
<p>"You've been stalking my angel." He says, and it almost sounds accusatory.</p>
<p>"We are." She admits. Lying, she feels, would be a rather ridiculous waste of time. </p>
<p>"We haven't bothered anyone, have we?" </p>
<p>"He has something we need."</p>
<p>"I see." Something dark passes over his face. "A  book?" </p>
<p>"Yes." She says, and it raises her hackles, the idea that the end goal might just be this easy. </p>
<p>"Awful lot of fuss for a little book."</p>
<p>"It is."</p>
<p>Anthony J. Crowley goes quiet for a bit, after that. </p>
<p>He flags down the waitress, soon after.</p>
<p>------</p>
<p>"Do you know what I am, Miss Romanov?" </p>
<p>She has not told him her name, but she decides his knowledge should be par for course, at this point.</p>
<p>"No." She tells him, throwing a little more of her bread to calm down the ruckus of the ducks. The ones in Britain, she muses, seem a lot more enthusiastic about their crumbs than those she has visited in other countries. Crowley-as he had insisted to be called-had assured her, though, the ones in St. James Park are best known for their discretion. She does not understand how much more discreet they can be to, say, the ones in New York, who barely acknowledge the existence of its residents at all, but she decides to take his assurance in stride.</p>
<p>"It does not matter, in the end." She continues.</p>
<p>"But you have your suspicions?"</p>
<p>"I do." She admits.</p>
<p>"And Fell?" He asks. "What of him?" </p>
<p>"We have some for him, too." Natasha shucks the last of her stale baguette, the one that Crowley had produced out of thin air, and watches the little beasts scramble over the remains. At last, she turns to face him.</p>
<p>"What is it that he wants, Crowley?" She asks. "I don't believe in favours."</p>
<p>"Neither do I," Crowley says, and this time, his grin has too many teeth. "But <em>he</em> does." </p>
<p>"Is this a threat?" </p>
<p>"Better." He tells her. "This is a hint. I haven't had this much fun since 1943."</p>
<p>Natasha shakes her head. "We don't have time for games. You understand what is at stake?"</p>
<p>"I do." He hums. Then, as if by an afterthought, adds; "You humans take everything far too seriously." </p>
<p>"My friend could be dead."</p>
<p>Crowley cocks his head as if listening to something whispering from the very earth, before looking away. </p>
<p>"He's not." She hears him say, just barely. "That's not something you need to worry about." </p>
<p>Natasha stares at him. When he sees the look in her eyes, he bursts out laughing-heaving lungfuls of air. </p>
<p>"I'm not a Nazi, I can tell you that much." He says, between chuckles. She's glad <em>someone</em> is constantly entertained by this meeting, at least. "You don't need to worry about Hydra getting their hands on those books, Romanov, and I don't need to be Fell to guarantee you that, too. Some of your lot's a helping more trouble than you're worth." </p>
<p>"I don't understand why you insist that you can't get me those books from him yourself."</p>
<p>"Oh, I can." He corrects her. "But as I said, I haven't had this much fun in decades. I enjoy my kicks where I can get them. And besides, my angel hoards those books like a dragon her treasure. I wouldn't betray him like that. I have a reputation to maintain." </p>
<p>"Tell me the hint." She demands, getting tired of beating around this particularly resilient bush. </p>
<p>"I've already told you the hint, now didn't I? I don't really care to repeat myself, you know." He says, amused. </p>
<p>"Then tell me what you're asking for it in return."</p>
<p>Crowley leans into her space, his face disconcertingly close to hers. On instinct, her hand wraps around the handle of her automatic, flicking its safety. </p>
<p>Crowley grins. His canines, Natasha notices, are much, much longer than the rest of his teeth. </p>
<p>"Give 'em Hell." He answers, and between one blink and the next, he is gone. </p>
<p>Natasha stares at where he once stood. In the distance, the ducks are terrorizing a couple of screaming children. </p>
<p>She sighs and sips the rest of her macchiato in peace. </p>
<p>What a drama queen.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clint is alive. Steve and Tony fight, and Steve gets a little help pitting all the little puzzle pieces together.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright, listen, I'd initially planned to just put up the Natasha chapter for today but I already had a little bit of this one put together and before I knew it, 1.30 in the morning and I have this finished and done up for ya. Enjoy, suckers.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve finds Tony already settled beside Clint's bedside, no worse for wear besides the fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his torso. Clint himself is still out of it-lying motionless on the bed, pale as a ghost. For the first few seconds, the soft, steady beeping of the ECG is the only thing filling the meaningful silence between them. </p>
<p>"Surprised they let you in here." Steve finally says, glancing meaningfully at his wound. "That was a pretty big hit he got you with, there." </p>
<p>"I know how to roll with my punches, mom." Tony snaps right back, but it lacks the proper bite he usually staples it with. He spares Steve a glare, though,  but his heart isn't in it. "Nat not back yet?"</p>
<p>"Nothing." Steve shrugs. "Buck's out front with Sam to call her over on the intercom."</p>
<p>"He'd <em>love</em> that. Anything exciting?"</p>
<p>"We'll find out when she gets back."</p>
<p>"Do we even still need the stupid book?"  He asks, more seriously now. When Steve looks up, it is to meet his eyes, and finding the raw vulnerability in them. "Smells like a dead end, now. We won't have any use for it, even if we manage to wrangle it from them. Barton spent time long enough with them to tell us where they're most likely to set up shop-,"</p>
<p>"And if he can't?" He counters, just as persistent. "You heard Banner, he's already told us why Fury set us out on a mission to do this in the first place." </p>
<p>"And if it blows, we'll have to factor in the fact that we threw a whole week away just to go on a fucking goose chase cause the fucking <em>doctor</em> between us felt to paranoid enough to hunt down a book on voodoo!" </p>
<p>"You and I both know Bruce is out there cutting up loose ends for the sake of this whole team. We <em>don't know what Hydra wants the book for</em>-," </p>
<p>"Yeah, and who's fault is that, huh? Our only key to finding out how to use the fucking book is a selective mute-," </p>
<p>"Oh, go fuck yourself." Steve spat, resisting the urge to shove the other man on his shoulder like this is some sort of schoolyard tussle. "Bucky's hang-ups got nothing to do with this and both of us know it. What's gotten you so scared about him, Stark? Because whatever the fuck's gotten you this spooked-," </p>
<p>"Because he's <em>messing with our heads</em>!"</p>
<p>(The thing about having being trapped under the ice for 80 years, Steve had always thought, the thing about it is that- you feel it a whole lot more astutely the heat that runs under the surface of your skin; you give a whole lot more attention to the temperature pf the blood that runs through your veins.)</p>
<p>Stark pushes himself onto his feet, and Steve is calling for him, he's calling for him but Stark is too busy pacing craters into the linoleum floor to pay attention to him. </p>
<p>Steve's blood feels <em>cold</em>, and he is suddenly more scared than he was 2 seconds ago. </p>
<p>"What the fuck does that even <em>mean</em>?"</p>
<p>"I don't <em>know</em>, alright?" Stark snaps, fidgeting in place, not unlike a cornered animal. "I did it, I bit the bullet-,"</p>
<p>"What did you <em>do</em>?"</p>
<p>"I called the number."</p>
<p>"You called the <em>number</em>? You're freaking out because you called the <em>number</em>?"</p>
<p>"Do you recall the number, Steven Grant Rogers?" Stark asks, and Steve is unfairly startled to find that he suddenly seems to have stopped, arms crossed upon his chest. "Can <em>you</em> tell me, here, to my face, can you recite the number we all saw on the bookshop sign from 5 days ago?"</p>
<p>That was easy, wasn't it? " 'Course I can," he says, because he <em>can</em>, he's memorized dozens of numbers and symbols from dozens of missions his whole adult life. He could do it.</p>
<p>Steve thought. And thought. And he thought some more. </p>
<p>Alright, so he couldn't do it. Big deal.</p>
<p>Steve shakes his head, because all this stupid fight is doing is giving him a massive migraine. "Didn't we have a recording of it?" He asks instead. "I can't believe I have to tell you this-you can't just look it up?"</p>
<p>"Oh, really? Yeah, look it up? Oh my god, that's mindblowing, I have <em>genuinely</em> not thought of that yet, you absolute fucking <em>genius, of course, I've looked it up</em>, the <em>god-damned</em> number keeps <em>changing</em>."</p>
<p>Steve pulls up a chair, then, because there is a <em>battering ram</em> behind his eyelids. </p>
<p>"That's impossible." He says, and he feels almost detached from his own body, as he does. "That can't happen. It's a picture, alright? A picture can't change like that. It was on a piece of fucking paper-,"</p>
<p>"That we caught on camera, yeah. And I've had FRIDAY dial in the number on repeat for a whole 5 hours, would you like to know what happened?"</p>
<p>Steve doesn't want to know what happened. Tony tells him anyway.</p>
<p>"It hits a different wrong number, <em>every single god-damned time</em>."</p>
<p>Steve frowns. "You get redirected every single time?"</p>
<p>"No, you're not <em>listening</em> to me. The number <em>hits</em> a different caller <em>every single time</em>. It was not redirected. I would <em>know</em> if I got redirected. It hits. I do not get the shop. And it goes on for <em>half a trillion times</em>."</p>
<p>"Jesus." He mutters, rubbing between his eyes. </p>
<p>"And here's what's funny, the funny-this is the funniest thing about it, FRIDAY can't remember it either."</p>
<p>"<em>What</em>." Steve hisses, and fuck, Stark needs to stop <em>talking</em>.</p>
<p>From above them, the AI beeps guiltily in admission. "I'm afraid Mr Stark is correct, Mr Rogers." She says. "I am unable to register the number into my database. It is a flaw that has never happened before."</p>
<p>Stark crouches in front of him, then, and Steve can barely see him, he is so dizzy. </p>
<p>"Something is <em>fucked up</em> about him, Rogers." Stark hisses. "And I don't trust it."</p>
<p>Someone clears their throat in the doorway. and they both look up.</p>
<p>Natasha is back, and she is flanked by Bruce, Sam and Bucky on all sides.</p>
<p>She takes a single glance at the bed, where Clint lays motionless and alive. When she finally speaks, her voice is strange and raw.</p>
<p>"We need to talk."</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>'<em>Fancy seeing you here. My angel doesn't much like any other eyes in here, see. He's got enough of them on his own. You can try again next time, eh? Be sure to ask nicely.</em>'</p>
<p>Steve sighs, rubbing his temples, and clicks replay. He ignores the digital clock glaring on the wall across his bed, warning him how it is already pushing past 3 in the morning.</p>
<p>'<em>Angel! I've brought sushi!</em></p>
<p><em>Crowley? Lock the door behind you, would you? Set the wine down, darling, I'm in the kitchen!</em>'</p>
<p>It didn't make any <em>sense</em>.</p>
<p>Another voice whispers at the back of his head, something tiny and frightened.</p>
<p>
  <em>Doesn't it?</em>
</p>
<p>His knee is bouncing where he sits on the edge of the mattress, and the darkness of his room suddenly seems so much more stifling than it had been a few minutes ago. His brain is out to kill him, and yet, he can't find himself falling asleep just yet. </p>
<p>"Angel?" he murmurs, and the answer is just <em>out of fucking reach</em>.</p>
<p><em>It's an endearment. They're partners. Partners call each other by endearments, don't they?</em>.</p>
<p>"Angel," Steve keeps on anyway, pulling what could be a frayed thread leading nowhere because <em>he is a stubborn son of a bitch, thank you very much</em>. "Angel. Angel, <em>angel, angel</em>. What the fuck does that mean-<em>angel</em>?"</p>
<p>He sees his old, leatherbound bible, sitting motionless by the nightstand.</p>
<p>Stupid. <em>It's stupid</em>. One of his best friends is a <em>Norse god.</em></p>
<p>"Fuck it," Steve says anyway, and snatches it up before he can change his mind.</p>
<p>
  <em>Come on, come on, come on</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Daniel, 9:12</em>
</p>
<p><em>.....while I was still speaking in prayer, then the man Gabriel, whom I had seen in the vision previously, came to me in my extreme weariness about the time of the evening offering</em>-</p>
<p><em>No</em>, the tiny voice whispers, and he flips to another page.</p>
<p>
  <em> Jude, 1:9</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>...But Michael the archangel, when he disputed with the devil and argued about the body of Moses, did not dare pronounce against him a railing judgment, but said, “The Lord rebuke you!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Try another</em>, the voice encourages him, politely, and Steve is ready to throw something against the fucking <em>wall</em>.</p>
<p>"Come on." He grunts. "Come on, <em>come on, come on.</em>,"</p>
<p>
  <em>Genesis, 3:24.</em>
</p>
<p>Steve stops flipping. </p>
<p><em>Well?</em> said the tiny voice. <em>Go on.</em></p>
<p>...<em>He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.</em></p>
<p>"What?" Steve said aloud, but of course, there was no one in the room to answer. The tiny voice is, for once, completely quiet. Steve has a feeling it is now completely pleased with itself. "It doesn't even say the name of the angel."</p>
<p>Then there is another tiny voice, cockier and lower than the other.</p>
<p>
  <em>Well, you already have it, don't you?</em>
</p>
<p>"What the fuck?" Steve mutters, rubbing his hand down his face.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, honestly, there's hardly such use for such foul language.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Shut it, angel, he's almost got it. Took the big brute long enough, din' he? </em>
</p>
<p>Steve stares at the holographic screen of his StarkPad, the frozen figure of Anthony J. Crowley stalking menacingly, his grin a wretched, twisted thing, and talons dripped in tar. </p>
<p>He exits the video, and pulls up the image of the storefront of the bookshop. </p>
<p>"FRIDAY," Steve calls out, and the often dormant AI in his room come alive at his beckoning, beeping questioningly. "Search the list of angel names-Avery Zira Fell."</p>
<p>"Give me a moment, Mr Rogers," she says, and produces an incomprehensible list of mixed nonsense. </p>
<p>
  <em>Perhaps something a little more specific?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Angel!</em>
</p>
<p>"Try Christian angels from the Genesis, the one with the flaming sword," Steve utters instead.</p>
<p>FRIDAY takes another moment, and the screen changes to one proclaiming of the <em>Archangel Uriel</em>.</p>
<p><em>Oh, dear,</em> frets the tiny voice. .</p>
<p><em>Typical</em> scoffs the other voice.</p>
<p><em>Let's give it one last try, dear</em>.</p>
<p>Steve rubs his hand up and down the seat of his pants. When had he even stood up from the bed? </p>
<p>"Try," he hesitates. "Try Christian angel A-zi-fell."</p>
<p>FRIDAY processes through the request.</p>
<p>The result is prompt. Steve stops and stares.</p>
<p>"Oh my God," he says. "<em>Oh my God</em>,"</p>
<p><em>Does that count as taking the Lord's name in vain</em>?</p>
<p><em>I don't think so, dear</em>.</p>
<p><em>Well, what would </em> you <em>know about that, anyway.</em></p>
<p>And the weird little voices in his head could have spoken more, but Steve is already too busy running through the halls of SI waking up the rest of the team to notice, leaving the open tab of FRIDAY's holographic screen unattended. In bold letters, the search clearly states only one name.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>Aziraphael, Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lift home?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"Did you add another chapter?" You might be asking.</p>
<p>Why yes, I say, yes I did.</p>
<p>Lmao, guess what my favourite scene is.</p>
<p>There are literally so many Lil easter eggs in this chapter like seriously, I spent like a cumulative two hours just googling random stuff and cracking the book open. Enjoy my dudes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dr Bruce Banner would be the first to admit that his relationship with God had always been particularly wonky, at best.</p>
<p>If he'd ever had the time or energy to contemplate it-and he'd done a lot of it during his self-exile in India-he'd always just chalked it up to the natural sceptical, perhaps even cynical inclinations of scientists. Banner has seen a <em>lot</em> in his fields of work, and you don't often micro-analyze decomposition of radiation in the natural biochemical composition of fungi, or write up the Doctorate thesis for historical uses of medieval electrical torture methods without coming out of it a <em>little</em> bit more opinionated of the natural state of Creation, and Humanity in general. </p>
<p><em>Did</em> he believe in the concept of an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient God? </p>
<p>Sure, he guessed, in all general, hypothetical terms, because thinking about it too much had always made him a little bit uncomfortable. Besides, he usually had another PhD to earn, and he would much rather be spending his time doing something <em>productive</em> instead of wasting it contemplating useless hypotheticals, thanks.</p>
<p>He'd burn that bridge when he'd get there, he reckoned and that bridge was probably going to be death, cold and alone in a cave in Calcutta, suffering the consequences of his sins. Like inventing nuclear bombs and not attending enough Sunday Mass.</p>
<p>He stands now in front of a dingy old chapel in the back streets of Brooklyn, psyching himself into meeting what was probably a legitimate angel of God to bargain for prophecy books they will never need, and muses why the universe liked proving him wrong so much.</p>
<p>"Can both of you guys stop pretending like you'll burn the moment you step foot on the floor, please."</p>
<p>"Easy for you to say Mister <em>I-found-the-answer-to-our-prayers-and-it-was-Jesus-hallelujah.</em>"</p>
<p>"In his defence," Bruce pipes up. "The answer wasn't <em>actually</em> Jesus."</p>
<p>Tony looked at him like Bruce had personally betrayed him and spat in his eyeball. It actually made him feel a little bit better about the whole situation.</p>
<p>"I still think we should've brought Nat. Or Sam."</p>
<p>"Sam's out of it," Steve mutters regretfully, zipping his jacket up against the sparse February chill. "I don't trust that he won't  bail us out on Fury."</p>
<p>"Miss me, Stark?" Nat clipped over the intercom. </p>
<p>"And Bucky's back-up." </p>
<p>"You've got another 15 seconds, punk," Bucky says on the other end of the line, as if on cue.</p>
<p>"I would also like to remind everyone," Tony declares, and Bruce sighs. "That none of us know that this is going to work, and the fact that this could all be a very elaborate trap set up by Nazis. We don't even know that the Target is coming, or even sure that he knows where we are. These are horrible odds, and we are possibly going to die."</p>
<p>Everyone makes some sort of noise of agreement. </p>
<p>"Excellent." He says and pushes open the chapel doors. They unlock with a creak of protest, giving way into the cold recesses of musky darkness of the church and near future. "Now let's go pay the Big Man a visit."</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Banner wouldn't describe the Church of Archbishop James Usher as particularly spiritually enlightening. The lights didn't work. The pews had withered with age. The air carried a particularly strong taste of stale cat piss and dust, and the Communal Water Bowl had been dried out.</p>
<p>"Looks like Someone's hadn't been home for a while," Tony muttered, leading the way to the front of the Church, and letting his reactor light up the way. He finds an old Bible on the altar, and Bruce sees how the pages practically crumble at the touch of his hand. "For an all-powerful being, He could use with a little housekeeping." </p>
<p>"Thought the place would be far worse off, actually," Steve admits, gingerly sitting himself down on the left frontmost pew, and watching Stark go about the place somewhat nervously.</p>
<p>He was right. The place had to have been abandoned for almost as long as the Captain had been trapped under the ice. Most places are hardly able to go that long without being vandalised in some way or the other.</p>
<p>"That's good, though, right?" Banner interjects, admiring some old, framed articles of the Church Grand Opening 105 years ago. "Like a good omen, or something."</p>
<p>Tony glances at him, mildly surprised. "Didn't take you as the kind that believed in that sort of thing."</p>
<p>"I don't." He said and turns to face Steve, who in turn seems to be staring at the decorated old wooden cross behind the altar in contemplating silence. "I still don't get why we couldn't have just used Saint Patrick's back in Manhattan. Or Saint Luke's in Florida. You wouldn't think prettier places like that would've been-I dunno-bit more respectful?"</p>
<p>"Not that that's something we're trying to achieve of course," Tony adds, and Bruce sends him a sharp glare, to which he pretended he didn't see.</p>
<p>Steve shook his head as if trying to dislodge some sort of a stubborn fly. He's been doing that a lot lately, Bruce noticed.</p>
<p>"This used to be my old neighbourhood." He muttered, uneasily. "This church wasn't here back then, but coming back here felt...right. Somehow."</p>
<p>He and Tony shared a look. "Like how it just felt <em>right</em> to check for answers in the bible?" Tony asked, suspicious. Steve scowled at his tone, but before the conversation would inevitably devolve into a fight, Natasha interrupted with a tone far too serious to be irritated. </p>
<p>"Boys, you should probably check the inscriptions on the cross. There's something you should see."</p>
<p>While Bruce and Tony were busy too sharing another look, Steve got up and did it himself. </p>
<p>"Little bit of light, over here." He tells Tony, who mutters how he 'wasn't a flashlight,' but wandered over anyway.</p>
<p>"Oh." Said Steve, once he manages to get a good sense of the crude carvings.</p>
<p>"Hmm," Tony says in reply, possibly because they are in a church and even <em>he</em> had standards.</p>
<p>"What," said Bruce, in vaguely panicked tones. "What does it say?"</p>
<p>"Genesis 3:22 to 3:24," a new voice rings out, smug and British, and all three of them whirl towards the east of the church where a blonde woman stepped out of the shadows. "<em>And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.”  So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.  After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.</em>."</p>
<p>Banner had barely realized there had been another body behind him until someone catches him into an iron-clad chokehold, holding a gun into the side of his pulse. He gulps against the familiar press of the tranquillizer, and the pale-yellow liquid he knows it must contain.</p>
<p>"<em>I called it</em>." Said Tony, as she cocks the safety of her automatic. "I <em>knew</em> it. <em>I fucking called it</em>."</p>
<p>"Cursing in a house of God, Mr Stark?" She mocked, smirking. "One would think a man of your stature would have a little more class than that, but then again," she shrugged. "I suppose all Americans are the same, at their core."</p>
<p>"What've you done with Bucky?" Steve demands, and Bruce realized, with stone-cold dread, the ringing silence in his ear.</p>
<p>" The Asset has been dispatched accordingly." She tells them. "It would take more effort for us to dispatch Miss Romanov similarly, but rest assured she would not be able to help you from this point onwards."</p>
<p>"You were in the <em>fucking bookshop</em>." Tony is still raging, but nobody was paying much attention to him anymore.</p>
<p>"My colleagues are surrounding this building as we speak." She continues, and she doesn't look so smug anymore. Now, she just looked <em>angry</em>. Out of the shadows lurked out two more enemy agents, three-five, as Bruce saw the figure emerging from the back of the aisle, efficiently covering the exit. "Return to us what we are owed, and we might even consider killing you off quickly."</p>
<p>"Generous offer," Steve said, his eyes darting between each of the figures to the best of his abilities. With only the light of Tony's suit and reactor, not to mention the sparse beam of moonlight through the dusty windowpanes, HYDRA's agents clearly assumed they had the upper hand. "And remind me again, exactly, what you think that is?"</p>
<p>"The <em>books</em>, Mr Rogers." She snapped, clearly unimpressed with his stalling. "HYDRA has been owed our list of the prophecies since the tail end of the War, and we have managed to hunt down every single other but the one you own, right at this moment. If the book is not returned to us within the next 10 minutes-,"</p>
<p>"<strong>HOLD IT</strong>."</p>
<p>The world, it felt to Banner, paused that very (ridiculously significant) moment.</p>
<p>They did not hear the doors of the church burst open, and even the figures of the door could only seem to watch in absolute astoundment as another dark-clad figure <em>hops </em> down the aisle like a barefoot kid on the beach in June, sporadically yelping in pain.</p>
<p>"Is that-," Steve stutters. "Is that who I-,"</p>
<p>"What the Hell is even going on?" Tony demands, arms raised and reactors humming in power, now fully armed and completely baffled.</p>
<p>"Hold it." Anthony J. Crowley says, because it doesn't seem likely that it even could be anyone else, and he doesn't look <em>half</em> as suave as his photos made him out to be. "Wait-hold the phone-shit still feels like walking on a bed of hot coals, Heaven blessit-,"</p>
<p>"Anthony Crowley," The blonde murmurs, as two of her accomplices set their guns on him. "Your reputation precedes you."</p>
<p>"Oh yeah, very original." The other man-shaped drawls in reply. He is still hopping all over the place, and doesn't look particularly concerned by the amount of firearms everyone is waving about. "A double-crossing, an old church and a bunch of prophecy books? Did you come up for all of it yourself, or did you mix and mash your favourite pieces from <em>Goldfinger</em>?"</p>
<p>"Take him out." She orders her accomplices, and Steve took a shot of the gun out of her own damn hand. There was a flurry of activity, Bruce kept busy using the distraction kicking the ribs out of his captor-he feels the Hulk pulsing a familiar tempo from behind his eyeballs, and throughout all of it, Anthony Crowley is laughing like a maniac, having a right blast of a time.</p>
<p>People are shooting, and bullets are being ricocheted off the pews Steve was randomly throwing at people, and Bruce takes cover the chipped stone altar, above which Anthony Crowley is perched, swinging his legs without a care in the world.</p>
<p>"Is this your trap?" He screamed to him, above the cacophony of energy against metal against wood against bullets.</p>
<p>"Sort of." Anthony Crowley screams right back. "Not for you, though! These Nazi fellas buzz around espionage like bees to-flame, or something." </p>
<p>"Where's your partner?!" </p>
<p>"You'll see him soon enough!" </p>
<p>Tony lets loose a chorus of curses, and that is when Bruce knows something had gone terribly wrong. Steve is down, clutching his side and Tony looks up from where he is slumped against the far west wall, trapped into his own suit. </p>
<p>"She's got away." He spat, and the glare he sends the creature behind him is enough to curdle fresh milk. Crowley doesn't seem to notice, staring intently at his wristwatch. "You cut-throat <em>back-stabbing sonofa</em>-,"</p>
<p>"Wait for it," Crowley says, holding up a finger.</p>
<p>"Wait for <em>nothing</em> selling us out on a bunch of Hydra-," </p>
<p>"Wait for it....,"</p>
<p>"Uh, Tony-," Steve interrupts, and Bruce understands why. The very foundations of the church seem to be shaking underneath them, and there is that <em>feeling</em>, a looming sense of oncoming dread.</p>
<p>Stark cuts himself off, and with great effort, pulls himself up on his feet.</p>
<p>"We need to go." He said, determinedly. "We need to go <em>now</em>."</p>
<p>Anthony J Crowley looks up at that, staring straight at Steve from behind his designer sunglasses. "Bad news," he starts saying instead. "That's not a good idea."</p>
<p>Steve ignores him. "Tony," he calls out. "Can you walk?"</p>
<p>"Gimme a minute." Tony groans out.</p>
<p>The earth rumbles angrily beneath them. "I don't think we have that," Bruce responds, already stumbling over where he lay.</p>
<p>"Do <em>not</em> attempt to get out of this church." Crowley insists. </p>
<p>"Help me up." Said Tony, and Bruce hauls him up to the best of his ability, wrapping his arm around the back of his neck until the man is, at least, upright. </p>
<p>Crowley's wristwatch beeps then, something shrill and manic against the still open air. </p>
<p>"Oh for Someone's sake," Crowley says, and within one second there is a sudden force of gravity, rapidly pulling all three of them against each other; a loud, <em>poof</em> as if the collision of massive pillows causing a significant displacement of air; and <em>feathers</em> of all things, from wings large enough to embrace all four of them in a bear-hug tight embrace.</p>
<p>And within the next second, the church explodes from all around them.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>There is a man in his dreams.</p>
<p>At least, Banner <em>thinks</em> it's a man, because he seems to change into something for every blink that he takes. The man's form blurs from all around him, and Banner thinks they might have a head of puffy white hair-perhaps it is a crown? Is it a halo?-and it might be long, as well as it could be short. His eyes -two? five? There are a million and he feels to the centre of all of them- are blue, and grey, and white and beige<em>andgreenandpinkandinfinite</em>, and they look at him with something like pity, something like understanding, and entirely with love, consuming his very being with warmth, too much warmth, so much warmth they spill out of his very very seams.</p>
<p>It is entirely possible Banner is crying.</p>
<p>"<em>Be not afraid</em>."Said the angel of Banner's dreams, as he cradles him into his arms. </p>
<p>"<em>I'm sorry</em>," Banner is babbling. "<em>I've sinned, forgive me, don't leave me, I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorry</em>-,"</p>
<p>"Hush, now, Bruce," The angel smiles, and Banner feels <em>Love</em>, seeping out of his very pores, they pour out of the tears that run down his very face; something Divine and Other and Old and Young and Whole, and Banner has never once felt so calm and complete. "You have nothing to apologize for, my dear boy."</p>
<p>"<em>I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry-</em>,"</p>
<p>"You will be home soon enough, my dear." The angel assures him, and Bruce cries <em>harder</em>, because he never wanted to leave this man's arms ever again. "All shall be explained in due time."</p>
<p>"<em>Pleasedon'tleavemeI'msorrypleasedon'tleaveI'msorryI'msorry</em>-,"</p>
<p>"Wake up, dear boy."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bruce wakes up.</p>
<p>------</p>
<p>There is a ringing in his ear, and dust in his eyes.</p>
<p>It feels almost like one of his Hulk-like out of body experience. Distantly, someone is coughing their lungs out. There are sirens and screaming, rapid-fire voices barking orders and blueandreadandblueandred lighting up the dull grey sky, indicating dawn just around the corner. </p>
<p>Banner registers, somewhat, that he is laying on a stretcher, and there is a someone perched on the bench right next to him.</p>
<p>"It was about time you came back to us, Doctor." Fury drawls, in that half-amused, half-irritated tone Bruce had grown so accustomed to. "There's someone who's been waiting to see you."</p>
<p>Banner twists as much as he is able, then, half-reclined as he was, expecting the Nat, Steve or hell, even Tony lounging on the paramedic's bench, glaring at him in shoddily-masked concern.</p>
<p>It is Mr Fell, hands clasped around a pile of books sitting daintily in his lap. His smile is almost as bright as the one in his dream; Old and Young and Infinite and ever so slightly guilty.</p>
<p>"Hello, Dr Banner," said the Angel Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. "I believe me and my partner have some apologies to make."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did you find all the eggs? If 10 people manage to list all of them from this chapter, I might even reward you with a quicker update and a Loki sequel I'm stewing around with. Good Luck.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Explanations are made</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am at least a LITTLE guilty that it took me so bloody long to update, and even then I broke the writing up between days of each edit and addition. For a short while, there was just a lot of shit going on, and then I had like a bunch of new ideas in my head and I couldn't rest until I finished this piece so /shrug/. I'm not too awfully happy with the ending, so I'd appreciate some comments on how to improve that in the future, and I was really worried if I didn't write Bucky right cause his circumstances require a delicate touch. It's a mix-mash of at least 3 POVs here; Aziraphale, Crowley and Bucky, so please please please tell me if it's in any way confusing. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale <em>hated</em> Stark Industries.</p><p>Well, perhaps that is not so accurate, and slightly unfair. SI Industries are one of the only multi-million American companies out there that incorporates consistent funding for activist programs, full-ride IT scholarships with solid employment benefits and suitable living wages for all its workers. They pay all their interns. It was not <em>without</em> corruption, of course, but it was certainly better than most. </p><p>It was more so Aziraphale <em>passionately disliked</em> the <em>SI Tower</em>.</p><p>Even at night, the full blast of the hidden LED lights chased away any remnants of darkness beyond its gleaming steel chrome hallways as if the building emitted light all on its own. Workers went about in professionally hushed conversations, fitted in monochromatic coloured suits. He feels the cold, lifeless gaze of the AI system settling into his shoulders the very first step into the building, and there was nowhere it couldn't find him. There was nowhere to run.  The furniture and designs are spacious and minimalistic; modestly grand; sleek, and bleak and <em>black and white</em>.</p><p>It didn't remind him of corruption; not the dank, crowded halls of Hell with its squeaky pipes and slippery floors.</p><p>It reminded him of <em>home</em></p><p>"Hey," Crowley whispers, so close he can feel the puff his breath against the nape of his neck. It takes a moment for him to realize he can feel Crowley's knuckles cracking under his vice-like grip. "Are you alright? Just say the word and we're back to the bookshop, no questions asked." </p><p>Aziraphale almost couldn't bring himself to answer him. Millenia worth if habit screamed that Crowley shouldn't even <em>be</em> here, let alone be having a conversation in the <em>lift</em>. The journey is smooth and quiet, Anthony Stark is tapping at an odd holographical tablet, muttering angrily to himself. Dr Bruce Banner couldn't look at him in the eye, and Director Nick Fury seems perfectly content silently minding his own business in his corner of the lift. And here Aziraphale was, having a panic attack because his surroundings (<em>on earth</em> he firmly reminded himself) are reminding him of the abusive repression of Heaven.</p><p>He didn't want to be here. He wanted <em>out</em>.</p><p>He shakes his head, stubbornly.</p><p>"I want words, angel." </p><p>"I'm fine." The excommunicated angel replies, in equally hushed tones. "They deserve an explanation."</p><p>"That doesn't need to happen <em>here</em>." </p><p>"They <em>all</em> need to be here, darling. Some of them are injured-," </p><p>"Nothing a couple of well-timed miracles won't fix."</p><p>Aziraphale sets him a glare, to which Crowley only responds with a clench of his jaw and a forceful shrug. <em>Both</em> of them knew <em>why</em> simultaneously miracling perfect health for two earthly superhumans might be tad more trouble than it was worth, and really-humans tended to be more resilient than most of the occult or ethereal would give them credit for.</p><p>The lift dings-a cheerful announcement of their arrival, and Aziraphale takes a moment for a deep calming breath he doesn't need. For a split <em>blink-and-you miss-it</em> second, the angel feels the familiar brush of sleek Crow feathers against his side, on a plane unseen by the human eye-a blatant, if hidden-act of assurance.</p><p>Aziraphale; centuries-fluent in Crowley's language of mannerisms understood the act as what as it was and sends him a reciprocating look of gratitude, to which he responds with his signature garbled 'Hnnnng' of content. </p><p>The metal doors welcome them into the midst what seems to be a full-blown argument.</p><p>"I was gone for <em>five-fucking-minutes</em>-,"</p><p>"We knew the risks we were taking-,"</p><p>"<em>You don't even know what you needed the fucking book for!</em>"</p><p>"Jesus fucking Christ-,"</p><p>Aziraphale clicks his tongue in admonishment-an automatic response. Crowley snorts, and all 5 pairs of eyes instantly snap towards them. </p><p>"Welcome back, you rat-bastard," Stark says, in Clint Barton's general direction without even looking up from the screen of his tablet. "We've brought company. I need a fucking drink."</p><p>"Missed you too, Nightlight." Hawkeye tosses back, in a similarly dry fashion. He is squinting in Aziraphale's direction with a look of complete distrust. "This the Angel of God?"</p><p>"Yup," Crowley drawls, at the same time that Aziraphale huffs an offended, "This <em>Angel of God</em> is perfectly able to answer his own questions, thank you."</p><p>"Then you must be the Devil." He continues, darting a look towards Crowley, who snatches the bottle of wine from Stark's own hand and pours a glass of his own as if he owned the place. Stark looks too tired to admonish him for it. </p><p>"I'm flattered you think so highly of me, Barton," Crowley replies, cheerily, and Aziraphale does not miss the way the man's shoulders tense at the nonchalant drop of his name. "But I'm afraid the only relation I have with the Big Man Downstairs is by doing his earthly paperwork every few millennia and cleaning up after his slobbering half-children. I much prefer Hell-spawn, if you will."</p><p>Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley's incessant bluff. There is only one official record of Satan's half-child, and Crowley still calls him over for trips around London for the weekends. </p><p>"Oh that's <em>much</em> better." Said Steve Rogers, where he sits reclined in one of the many tastefully scattered couches in the lounge. Aziraphale tries to ignore the fact that besides the well-stocked minibar and the expensive imported furniture, the lounge could be an exact copy of almost all of the Heavenly Community Lounges; all polished glass and spotless white tiles. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows boasts the breathtaking sight of New York, a generous expanse not unlike the very reflection of the night sky itself, an infinite carpet of light and life; and is reminded, instead, the similarity of it to the view from Crowley's Mayfair flat, for which opens a kinder bout of memories. But Steve is attempting to sit upright, a stubbornly fixed expression of distrust on his features. It pulls on his wounds, and the Winter Soldier growls in distress in his place. "I don't understand-I don't believe in coincidences, not in this line of work. Were we bait? Was this impulsive, were we allies this entire time? Nothing about this entire makes sense, and if you really <em>are</em> what you've said you are-,"</p><p>"Oooh, look at me," Crowley mimics mockingly, sipping his glass of wine as he habitually circles around Aziraphale like some sort of pet panther guarding its master. "I'm an American 80-year-old World War 2 soldier and I've been in this business longer than most of you have been alive, nothing gets past me-,"</p><p>"That's quite enough, my love," Aziraphale interrupts him, taking the glass from his gentle grip. Crowley scowls, but heels. When he meets Roger's eyes, they are sympathetic and appropriate with the gravity of the situation at hand. "I've promised an explanation, and I am a being of my word."</p><p>-------------</p><p>"You have Nazi's at your heels, angel," Crowley tells him, on a drunken night in December.</p><p>They have only just returned from an enjoyable night from the Globe, followed by the most delightfully romantic dinner date at the Ritz. It had begun snowing soon after, and they had both agreed to retire for the night with a nightcap back in the Bookshop as they are wont to do more and more frequently since the 'Nopegeddon,' as Crowley had delightfully put it. Aziraphale had just been babbling on about increasingly modern renditions of Shakespear's Hamlet and Macbeth, how pleasantly surprised and proud he would've been to see how influential and far his plays had gotten to dent in the 21st Century, and comparing the slang and themes of before and after, when Crowley drops this information on him not unlike a nuclear bomb.</p><p>"Oh," said Aziraphale, and he stops running his hands through Crowley's hair where his head had been settled into Aziraphale's lap. Crowley frowns, discontent with this abrupt change of pace."Oh, goodness, are there really?".</p><p>"Been following you for some weeks now." Grumbled Crowley, and he tries to drunkenly grasp Aziraphale's hands to continue his ministrations. Aziraphale does, humming happily as he treads through his blood-red locks. He's been trying to grow it out for some time now, and it's length now reaches past his shoulders, tumbling past his lap where they are splayed like wildfire.</p><p>"Heavens." Aziraphale squints, trying and failing to look stern. "And you've only mentioned their presence now?"</p><p>"Wanted some stupid books, 's all." Crowley sniffs. "Goes back to the  Church incident, back in the Blitz, angel-do you remember?"</p><p>"As if I could ever forget." Aziraphale murmurs, recalling that certain night where he had finally-inevitably-come to terms with the expanse of his personal attraction to his hereditary enemy. He still has the tartan patterned book bag and tan fedora hidden inside the corner of his closet, in the bedroom that has begun to see much more use these past few weeks. They had never once collected dust. "You'd looked ever so dashing, darling."</p><p>Crowley looks away then, a splash of red across the handsome cut of his cheekbones he never manages to hide when Aziraphale calls him one of his many, <em>many</em> new endearments he had come up with since the Nopegeddon. Aziraphale takes great pleasure calling him in new increasingly sweet names any chance he gets. </p><p>"Not the time, angel." Huffs Crowley, a failed attempt to look annoyed. "They've been attracting <em>trouble</em>."</p><p>Aziraphale does freeze, at that.</p><p>"Not <em>trouble</em>trouble." Crowley amends, quickly. "Nothing <em>demonic</em>, or <em>otherwise</em>. Nothing close to 14th Century, either."</p><p>Aziraphale shoulders slack-marginally-humming to hide his sudden bout of nervousness. "Then why mention it at all?"</p><p>"The <em>fun</em> kind of trouble, angel." Crowley says, and his grin is bright and mischievous-worthy of the silver-tongued demon. Aziraphale falls in love with him all over again.</p><p>-------</p><p>"I leave you for a job in Paris for <em>five-bloody-minutes</em>," Crowley announces, in greeting. The door closes behind him with a resolute <em>'thump'</em>, lock clicking in place. Aziraphale couldn't have stopped the smile creeping onto his face if he tried. "And Anthony <em>bloody</em> Stark <em>himself</em> comes over to look over your wares. Careful now, angel, or he might have attracted more attention to your shop than you ask for."</p><p>"All he <em>is</em> is a man with an inflated sense of importance," Aziraphale replies huffily, once again failing to sound annoyed as his spouse captures him around the waist, blowing a raspberry into his neck. In turn, he captures Crowley's face into the palms of his hands and plants a sincere-if chaste-pack on his beautiful lips.</p><p>The look of his face is one of complete adoration. Aziraphale has no doubt his own looks equally dopy. </p><p>"Well hello, there." He whispers, and giggles some more when Crowley ducks down to steal another kiss, humming contentedly<br/>
"The Nazi been here again?" Crowley asks, bumping noses. </p><p>"Oh yes." Aziraphale sighs, much more genuinely annoyed now. He busies himself with straightening an imaginary crumple on the lapels of his blazer, not completely inclined to part too far from him either. "She hasn't been much trouble for the rest of my customers, so I've been letting her look around as to not arouse suspicion."</p><p>"Prophecy books?" Crowley prods, gently, voicing their suspicions of quite some time now.</p><p>"Definitely." Sighs Aziraphale again, bitterly. "But I've not been able to determine what exactly they've been looking for until the Stark fellow himself started sauntering and screaming for it for all the world to hear."</p><p>At that, Crowley bursts out laughing. "Sounds like my kind of man." He teases, and Aziraphale makes sure to roll his eyes exasperatedly as possible. "It seems like our troublemakers <em>have</em> been bringing more mischief than we originally anticipated." He muses.</p><p>"Indeed," says Aziraphale. "I'm counting on his pride to steer him away from <em>actually</em> contacting the number I've relayed to him, though."</p><p>"Number?" Said Crowley, surprised. "Angel, you <em>hate</em> having customers call you on your business hours. Didn't know you were willing to take that kind of risk."</p><p>"Not my <em>actual</em> number, of course." Aziraphale hums, patting his chest. "Sort of just...expected it to be there." </p><p>Crowley had laughed again, and they had proceeded to be far too distracted celebrating Crowley's return from that point on to ponder the intricacies and repercussions of having a human attempt to call a non-existent number.</p><p>-------</p><p>A man is waiting outside the bookshop.</p><p>Not <em>directly</em> outside of it, of course; he was a little ways off, tucked in between shops behind the steady stream of SoHo's morning masses. In his battered denim jacket and jeans, Crowley would have dismissed him as nothing more than Aziraphale's many antique book admirers were not the distinct smell of <em>guilt</em> of an espionage agent.</p><p>It takes an embarrassing second for him to pinpoint his face, but the second of which he does is a shot of adrenaline straight into his usually dormant veins</p><p><em>Ohoho</em> thought Crowley <em>Looks like the angel's really</em> is<em> part of another Nazi mission. Honestly, the amount of trouble he gets to the moment I'm not around...,</em></p><p>He grins at him then, meeting the Falcon's brown eyes, pulling back the glamour settled into his corporation like a piece of second-skin and allowing him the glimpse of needle-sharp canines, inhumanly large maw and the eldritch sense of Hell and Sulphur...</p><p>...just in case. </p><p><em>Alright, then </em> thought Crowley, buckling into the Bentley, leaving behind what could possibly a half-traumatized man pissing himself in the dank alleyway beside an alcohol shop. A snap of his fingers miracles the quickest, most expensive first-class plane ticket on a one-way ticket to New York City in the United States. </p><p><em>Let's see what all this fuss is</em> really <em>about</em></p><p>------</p><p>"A <em>nuclear bomb</em>?"</p><p>Aziraphale doubts he has indeed heard him right, but Crowley produces a noise of a vaguely conforming essence-heavy on the consonants with a pulling upwards pitch towards the end.</p><p>"'S messy business."Crowley continues. "And they've already lost a teammate. They've got personal stakes in it."</p><p>"Heavens." Frets Aziraphale, tossing some more peas into the lake, in a desperate bid for the ducks' good graces. They glare at him in indignant clusters, as if unimpressed by today's bounty. Spoiled heathens they are. "And the Romanov woman-she has nothing to say about it at all?"</p><p>"Nothing I didn't already know, anyway," Crowley mutters, glaring into the distance, where a young couple is giggling and throwing bread to a batch of enthusiastic mallards from their picnic blanket. A snap ensures them from being overrun by the monstrous bastards, and besides a little smile, Aziraphale pretends not to acknowledge it at all.</p><p>"She was a novelist!"</p><p>"I know, angel."</p><p>"She was nothing close to a witch!"</p><p>"I know, angel."</p><p>"Rather," Aziraphale murmurs, sullenly emptying the rest of his packet into the water. Besides an old hungry drake or two, the rest of the ducks have departed for greener pastures, or bread, from the rest of the park-goers around the lake. "Do you think, perhaps, we should have settled the problem for them from earlier on? I keep feeling as if all this nonsense could have been averted if only...,"</p><p>Crowley sniffles. "They're professionals, angel. You remember what happened the <em>last</em> time we had gotten involved in a little espionage. You best leave them to it."</p><p>"They're only human, dear."</p><p>"Careful now," Crowley says, and finally, since they had begun their walk scant few hours ago, he smiles. "You and I both know they can be a darn right stubborn lot once they've put their mind to it. I know for a fact that they've never stopped surprising you as they had me, from all the way back Eve had eaten that thrice-damned apple in the bloody garden lightyears ago."</p><p>"Oh darling," Aziraphale sighs, allowing his own reciprocating smile appear on his face, not unlike the sun peeking out of heavy clouds on a beautiful Friday morning. "It almost sounds as if you have more faith in them than you claim to."</p><p>"Oh, shattap." He snaps harmlessly, and leads him gently to his favourite patisserie for a snack on the way back to the bookshop.</p><p>-------</p><p>"Angel?" Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale's thigh, and Aziraphale practically startles, easing nominally upon seeing his spouse's maw stretched into his inhumanly large yawn. "What are you doing?"</p><p>"He's praying to me," Aziraphale admits, guiltily.</p><p>Crowley's eyes shoot open of their own volition, sleepy and concerned. "Angel?" He asks again, more insistently this time.</p><p>He hears it then; a whisper faint enough to be missed by human ears. It was not meant for him, and he would have bet his right leg that if it weren't for the bloody <em>angel</em> situated right next to him, he would have missed it too. It took a couple of tries, and jerky movements of the head in no particular direction, to finally hear what Aziraphale was talking about. </p><p>A voice, distinctly desperate, and American.</p><p>"That hasn't happened in quite some time," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale covers Crowley's hand in his where they rest atop the tartan bedsheets, and the atmosphere of their bedroom above the bookshop is respectfully calm, sticky as syrup and tingling with ozone, as it always is upon the correspondence of a direct prayer; as if they had crossed an ethereal plane of existence. It was true enough-it was difficult to invoke the name of an angel who wasn't even directly mentioned in the bible unless you knew what you were looking for. And yet-</p><p>"I doubt he realizes he's doing it." Said Aziraphale, and when Crowley turns to look at him, he sees the shadow of three distinctly animal heads, wings like swathes of pure light, and eyes, <em>eyes, eyes,</em> glowing with the fury eternal suns, ancient and kind. "Oh, <em>Crowley</em>-,"</p><p>"Have you Answered him?" Crowley asked, or else Aziraphale would be far too overwhelmed with emotion to do so, and what good would that do?"</p><p>"He's <em>upset</em>-," Said Aziraphale, shaking his head.</p><p>"<em>Angel</em>,"</p><p>"He's looking for <em>answers</em>," He says, and he looks so crestfallen, so guiltily <em>heartbroken</em> Crowley has no choice but to sit and gather him into the cradle of his arms. "Oh, <em>darling</em>, I'm beginning to think that perhaps we have bitten off more than we can chew. Do you think-?"</p><p>Crowley <em>thinks</em> this had gotten far enough.</p><p>He sighs. </p><p>"Gather your books, angel." He tells him, a gentle command. "I think we've ought to put a stop to our fun after all."</p><p>-------</p><p>The shockwave had completely decimated the church. Aziraphale is devastated.</p><p>"That's <em>two</em>, Crowley!" He had cried, cradling the unconscious superhumans in the firm embrace of his wings in his stead. "Two churches too many!"</p><p>"At the expense of a few million lives or so, angel," Retorted Crowley, as he finishes handcuffing the dozen or so Nazi agents bleeding and dazed on the tarmac. More than half had been half-blinded, eardrums burst, expressions contorted into the creepy stoic facade of the traumatized and half-deranged. Those who weren't were shivering and unconscious-perfect victims of interrogations that are sure soon to come.</p><p>Expected really. There is only so much a human could handle in close exposure to Angel's True Form. Any closer and they would have been completely obliterated on the spot-in place of a rotten barricade of holy wood, cement and steel. In the distance, a sound in the air, and he crooks his head to hear it better. </p><p>"Sirens?" Asked Aziraphale, much more quietly than before.</p><p>" And entourage." Crowley hums. "Seems the rest of the crew are on their way. How fare the Super Bastards?"</p><p>"Oh, really," Chides Aziraphale, as he cradles Leftenant Buchanan Barnes into the crook of his arms. The man seems to curl further into the nest of his wings in content. You could hardly tell him to be one of the most dangerous super-soldiers on earth, or that he had been in capture from cold-blooded torturers not ten seconds ago. Aziraphale seems to make a conscious effort cooling down back into his corporation, however-his eyes, though still glowing pupilless in white holy fire, had returned to the substandard two, and the persistent ringing in the air reminiscent of electrocuted air particles is almost completely gone. </p><p>"Are you ready to go?" Crowley asks, as the sound of wheels crunching tarmac and ambulances begins to get significantly louder, and closer. </p><p>Aziraphale turns away. </p><p>Crowley's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Angel...," </p><p>"It's not right, dear." the Principality says, hugging the small group of heroes close like oversized teddy bears. "We ought to explain-they deserve-,"</p><p>"We've talked about this." Crowley intones urgently. He is not panicked, not yet, but he is very, very close. "You know what Adam's said, <em>no more messing about</em>, I know you heard, because <em>you were there</em>,"</p><p>"<em>It's not right,</em> dearest, and <em>you know it, too</em>,"</p><p>The sirens and wheels are now only one mile away. Crowley almost couldn't bring himself to look at Aziraphale in the eye because he <em>knew</em> he would cave, because he was <em>right</em>, but someone had to be speaking sense here.</p><p>"I just don't want us to get hurt." He whispers, fearfully, because Aziraphale had always, <em>always</em> been the bolder, the braver between the two of them. </p><p>"Oh, <em>darling</em>," Said Aziraphale right back. "<em>Trust me</em>,"</p><p>Damn it, thought Crowley,<em>Damn it to high heavens</em>, because that was a right low blow that was.</p><p>"Of course I do." Said Crowley, because it was bloody <em>true</em> no matter how he wanted otherwise.</p><p>---------</p><p>SHIELD wanted the books. The angel Aziraphale looked so offended by the mere idea it was as if Agent Coulson had proposed them murder his grandmother and cook her into tortillas. </p><p>"It would be safer here," he tried to persuade them, but it was clear who had already won the argument. The arch of his eyebrow was loudly patronizing. </p><p>"I doubt so, Mr Coulson, but I thank you for the offer." Said Aziraphale, sounding so dry and sceptical the man visibly flinches as the angel strides to the other side of the room for refreshments. Bucky frowns.</p><p>"I sense you have further questions for me, Mr Barnes," Said Crowley, and it was only through sheer dignity and stubbornness he had not jumped at his sudden proximity. The man, the <em>demon</em> grins as if he had, anyway. No one had managed to successfully creep up on him for a very, very long time. </p><p>"Just a few," he said, cautiously. "Why did you say the nazis had wanted the books for a nuclear bomb? How did you know it, if they had?"</p><p>Bucky had his own suspicions of the whole thing, and he wasn't entirely sure why he was asking the man-demon for answers anyway. There was a kernel of truth in every story, anyway, and the stories had rarely ever painted his <em>kind</em> as good, honest Englishmen. </p><p>(There was something about him though, that told Bucky that Anthony J. Crowley is not the kind of man to answer dishonestly to honest questions. Bucky is not the kind of men to distrust his instincts.)</p><p>Anthony J. Crowley makes another one of his <em>noises</em>, strumming vocal cords as he twirls the ice around his Black Russian. </p><p>"A magician never reveals his secrets," He grins, licking his lips, and Bucky sees the hint of a double-pronged tongue, inhumanly slender and long. "But a little birdie tells me SHIELD had only very recently lost a man from the Board of Wankers, a lap dog spending his daddy's money."</p><p>Bucky had no idea what he was talking about, but he very suddenly understands what might have happened to him. He tenses, gripping his own shot glass in a white-knuckled fist. </p><p>"What did you-,"</p><p>"Relax," The man-demon drawls, sipping his drink. "He's back home, caring for his ailing mother he's never visited since his 20's. There's a bad fruit in every megalith corporation, and I don't need to tell you that. He told me what I needed to know, I put him where he needed to be. I work <em>deals</em>, Mr Barnes, maybe Miss Romanov can tell you a thing or two about it." </p><p>Bucky hesitated regardless. "So SHIELD knew about it all along?"</p><p>"You don't need <em>me</em> to tell you that, do you?" Asked Crowley, smirking. "I mean, are you <em>really</em> surprised?"</p><p>Not really, thought Bucky. He didn't need to tell him that.</p><p>"Thank you," he said instead, and that seems to startle him the most. He almost drops his liquor, and Bucky almost smiles. Crowley scowls.</p><p>"<em>Don't</em> say that." He growled, poking the air between them. It fails to be threatening. "I have a reputation to maintain, and if my angel hears a word of it-,"</p><p>"Word of what, dearest?" </p><p>This time, Bucky <em>does </em>jump. The angel Aziraphale smiles innocently up at him, and mercifully ignores it. </p><p>"Our thanks," Said Bucky, slower this time. "He saved Clint Barton's life."</p><p>The Angel turns his spotlight beam of a smile to his demonic compatriot instead, (which Bucky assumes is probably the reason the demon wears the sunglasses in the first place) and Bucky feels simultaneously relieved and disappointed. </p><p>"Oh <em>Crowley!</em>" The Angel trills.</p><p>"Oi!" Barked Crowley, flushing with what he thinks is anger, but what is probably more likely embarrassment. "I did no such thing! The man already had it under control, see, just needed a bit more push-,"</p><p>But his partner evidently refused to have none of it, pecking him on the cheek and causing the demon to halt and stammer through his words, before shutting him up altogether. If they didn't tell him that they were older than the creation of man itself, Bucky would have assumed that they were no older than a couple of lovesick teenagers.</p><p>Sam Wilson eventually swooped in to save the day, striking a conversation with Aziraphale about the Shakespeare play he had been on about the day before, and Steve sneaked over to give him a refill.</p><p>"What now?" He asked him, finally feeling more comfortable than he had felt all night, even beside an honest to God Angel of the Lord.</p><p>Steve sips his drink-a neon pink cocktail he'd seen Natasha drinking not 5 minutes ago. </p><p>"Well," He said. "They didn't want anything to do with the Initiative, Aziraphale made god-damned sure of that. Did you know they were retired? I didn't think that was a thing that could actually happen, but I guess that comes from living so long, I guess. Nat convinced Fury to give them some space-think she really hit it off with the Crowley guy."</p><p>"Figures," Bucky squints. "You're avoiding the subject."</p><p>Steve is avoiding his gaze. "I think they considered brainwashing us just so we could leave them alone. Fell didn't want to, though."</p><p>Bucky hums. "You think he saw through my head?"</p><p>"From what Banner said, I think he saw through all our heads." </p><p>Bucky gave that some thought, waiting for that inevitable burst of hostility and anger-stemming from the thought of someone poking and prodding where he was tired of being poked and prod. </p><p>It didn't come, though.</p><p>"Okay." He said, and Steve looked at him like he'd grown two heads. </p><p>"You sure?" He asked, hesitantly. Bucky waited some more, and shrugged. It made feel a bit uncomfortable, that, because it didn't erase the bad memories he <em>did</em> have in direct relation to brainwashing, but he'd <em>felt</em> what it was like to have the angel in his head, and it had felt far from intrusive. His soul hadn't felt so calm in a long, time. </p><p>The plain fact that he <em>could</em>, and <em>refused</em> to, made Bucky feel as if they understood what it was like, no matter how vaguely. Sympathy without the pity. It was nice, coming from the right person. </p><p>"You think we'll see them again?" He asked instead, and Steve allowed him to change the subject.</p><p>"Yeah, maybe." Steve shrugged. "I wouldn't hold my breath though. Whoever this Adam guy they said was, it really sounded like they didn't want to piss him off. They're mostly going to leave us alone, from now on."</p><p>Bucky didn't even want to start imagining the kind of entity that could scare two powerful eldritch supernatural beings into submission like that, and he doesn't hope to meet it in the future. </p><p>(As Steve said though, he wasn't going to keep his hopes up.)</p><p>"Good," Said Bucky, and that was the end of that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>End Scene!</p><p>(I'm sorry that I can't bring myself to answer every single one of your comments rest assured I hoard and adore every single one of your kudos and comments they give me warmth, love, and motivation to write more and improve myself! I love you! Stay Safe!!)</p>
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